


M-D-W

by polariscope



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polariscope/pseuds/polariscope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sits on a chair across from his bed, tapping an unknown violin melody out on the handle of his cane, and waits for the bell to sound the arrival of the removers.</p>
<p>Post-Reichenbach reveal fic. John discovers a note left in 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	M-D-W

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own anything. I've made this rather interactive. Every location mentioned is available for your own perusal, as well as being accurate to Google Maps. Links at the end.

It's raining, two months, three days and thirteen, perhaps fourteen, hours since the day Sherlock killed himself when he finds it. In retrospect, John can see where he acted a bit idiotic over that period - researching the meanings of flowers (never quite found one that meant _you selfish bastard_ ), not telling Ella he'd obtained the footage on the camera Sherlock had discovered. Most of it had been justified (maybe not the twenty-seven times of _“Dust is eloquent!”_ but most of it).

He's filled six boxes, which are obviously more than he had originally moved in with and possibly not all his own things, but, by the end of the afternoon, the last John has left for the van are his mattress and night-stand. More than half of Sherlock’s rather eccentric belongings remain untouched, and John’s bothering Mycroft on either a place of storage or a dump. Mrs. Hudson is set to decide for the man by the end of the week.

He sits on a chair across from his bed, tapping an unknown violin melody out on the handle of his cane, and waits for the bell to sound the arrival of the removers. He’s distracted by his breathing, which is ragged and wheezy; how he didn’t notice how bad it became boggles him. Though, strangely, there were many things he stopped noticing about himself during his time with Sherlock, which is just ironic now since the man had been all about observation. John takes a second to survey his surroundings, feeling small and unbelievably out of place in all the abandoned space of the flat.

There comes a knock on the downstairs door, and John dismisses his thoughts, rising from his seat. He glances around the room and decides to begin with the mattress, abandoning his cane and wobbling over to lift it from the frame. He sees it, then, a square piece of paper fluttering near his left hand. It’s taped to the bottom of the mattress, hanging down, clearly meant to be noticed, and John nearly drops the entire thing back on the bed. He tears it from the fabric and has barely glanced at it before the damp driver and Mrs. Hudson arrive at the room.

John hesitates, and then reaches in his pocket and pulls out twenty pounds.

“I’m- you know what, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I need some more time,” John fumbles as he hands the money to the driver, “could you come back another day? I’ll give you a ring.”

He pretends to ignore Mrs. Hudson’s mouth drop open and refers back to the square of paper, no larger than his palm. It’s on somewhat thick parchment, hardly a scrap of letter, and its shape tells John that the cut and size were deliberate. He thinks only one person could’ve left it. Inscribed, in dead center, are the letters **M D W** , but they’re strange, like they’d been written on an uneven surface, tiny dots and spaces in the length of the letters, as if they were-

“John!” Mrs. Hudson interrupts, high-pitched and explicitly worried, “you’re all packed! You haven’t been sleeping here for weeks! I have potential tenants coming to look at the flat next week, you need to-“

“Tell them it’s not for sale. I’m staying. I’ll pay full rent; I’ve only some saved up, but I’m staying.” John is recoiling, self-conscious. He swallows and knows, beyond a doubt, that this is a _bad_ idea. That he will become far more obsessive and maddened than he’s been already.

He can’t stop himself.

“But, John, Ella-“

“Sod ‘er, Mrs. Hudson! I need a microscope. Do you still have Sherlock’s? Tell me you do.”

Mrs. Hudson fumbles a bit, shaken, and then nods quickly and turns out of the room.

John watches as the paper quivers in his fingers, his breathing louder than ever.

 

Three more months pass before he gets it. John’s insomnia reaches an unhealthy level; he’s in a constant state of cynicism, not even sleeping the nights he doesn’t have to wake up for work. He hasn’t told Ella or Mrs. Hudson about the square paper, but it’s apparent they both suspect he’s up to something, that he’s acting reckless and irrational. He doesn’t disagree. The three letters disturb him, M D W, M D W, M D W, as well as the microscopic Morse code dots and dashes they were written in, hiding the message, _“it’s elementary”_ , which teases him in Sherlock’s voice when he does manage to dream.

John gets up every morning completely convinced it means something, but it’s a destructive distraction. It doesn’t help that he hit dead end two weeks prior (not like he hadn’t been there all along), his ideas all dried up and not one lead to go on.

First, there had been an obvious choice: Midway International airport, Chicago, Illinois- airport code MDW, but it was promptly disregarded. John knew Sherlock hadn’t meant for him to travel to America; he had more than demonstrated his disdain for the place during their time together.

Second was a weapons supply company, Midlands Deactivated Weapons, which had immediately sparked a glimmer of hope, seemingly the right choice, and, while John did end up enjoying browsing the site, the humiliation of having his number blocked after too many interrogative calls to the store gave him his ultimate answer.

Third, a financial consultation company, MDW Associates Ltd, near East Sussex, a ride he borrowed Sarah’s car for – initially, he speculated it was Sherlock’s subtle hint at John’s money problems (which still exist, and he’s been trying to avoid Mrs. Hudson as much as possible). Instead, he had ended up losing fifty quid to someone telling him how shite he was at managing money, irony and all.

And those were the relatively sensible, logical attempts; countless more fell under the categories of down-right ridiculous and utterly harebrained, but at least they were better than having nothing left to try.

In an endeavor to skirt Mrs. Hudson yet again, he takes the Jubilee line towards Green Park first thing once he gets up Saturday morning, reasoning that it’d be an easy place to be invisible amongst the masses of people that filter in and out throughout the day. John would typically walk to Regent’s, perhaps stroll around the zoo, but he has a hunch that Mrs. Hudson has figured him out and doesn’t need her following him again today.

He flicks open a newspaper once he boards and sits down, pointedly ignoring any hypotheses on how long the homeless man he smells across the aisle has been there (and especially the taunt of, _Sherlock would’ve known_ in his head). After a handful of minutes, the gentle tube voice announces, _‘next station, Bond Street, change to central line,’_ and says it again, _‘next station, Bond Street,’_ after about thirty more seconds. John blinks, something nagging him. 

Ah. Bond Street, like James Bond.

He senses his lips twitch up in either a smile or a grimace, thinking back to the attempt of giving Sherlock a Bond Night, which merely resulted in John rewatching the first fifteen minutes of _Goldfinger_ before huffily switching off the telly lest he endure another hour and a half of Sherlock’s incessant whining about the inaccuracies ( _Whining? Pah! Deduction, John, deduction!_ and John really hopes he doesn’t continue to hear Sherlock in his head anymore – is that even how his voice sounded? Is he remembering wrong? That crap camera audio–). He doesn’t know what gets into him, but, sooner than John can stop himself, he’s up and exiting the tube at Bond Street, gliding up the moving stairs with one hand on his cane and the other on the rail.

“Just going to get some breakfast,” he mutters to himself, as if there was someone next to him to defend himself to.

John wanders, unsure of exactly where he’s headed, out of sorts amongst all the clothing stores and young people heading to their weekend part-time jobs, much more self-conscious of his moseying about than usual. He turns down a street where he can spot a food cart on a corner down the road and double-checks the street names for memory once he gets there.

_‘A three-way intersection between Molton, Davies, and Weighthouse, antique store to the south-’_

He repeats it in his head, because John occasionally fears his mind growing weary and forgetful, and he doesn’t fancy getting lost in the city when he’d simply rather sit on a bench in the park for the afternoon.

_‘Molton, Davies, and Weighthouse.’_

John freezes, almost coughs inhaling too fast, and his mind is instantly zipping, viewing his surroundings with a new, critical eye. Molton, Davies, Weighthouse. M D W.

He grips his cane hard. This is absurd.

“What am I even doing,” he hears himself mutter.

Still, he stumbles across the street, looking for something, anything, which may have an answer. There’s so many people milling about; John gazes around, studying to see if any of them are making intentional eye contact. There’s the antique shop, hanging a banner displaying its name ( _grays_ ), located in a red brick building on the corner; there’s a plaque that says-

“No.”

John is dizzy, so absurdly dizzy, and his heart just started pounding a spot faster; he squashes an urge to reach out his fingers and trace the name, _his name_ , displayed on a plaque on the building. Precisely on the corner of the three streets, Molton, Davies, and Weighthouse. The sign reads, ‘John Bolding and Sons’, each word on its own line. He doesn’t care about anything other than his name, directly on top, because it has to mean something. Bond Street, MDW, and now John’s name.

Right?

And there it is again, the guilt of the entire daft expedition, and every other one, mounting in his throat like bile. John has a _problem_ , something serious and palpable, keeping him from putting Sherlock behind him. Coming up with ludicrous notions of some sort of trail of clues left behind for him! Sherlock wouldn’t expend the energy. Sherlock wouldn’t. Sherlock isn’t even-

The corner of his eyes start to prickle, and he bows his head, exhaling gently.

John flickers back to his last session with Ella, the way she insisted he come in and insisted he talk about his decision not to move from 221b. She’d asked him if something had happened; John hadn’t told her, not about the paper, not about the trips or the theories. But he was a bad liar, and she knew. And she’d said,

“I have to let him go,” John mumbles, barely perceptible to his own ears. “He’s dead.” 

John swallows thickly. “He’s fucking dead.”

He’s about to turn and walk back to the station when someone has the nerve to tap his shoulder. He tries to brush them off.

“Excuse me, would you be interested in a discount to grays’ arts and antiques, Mister...?”

Curse his good manners.

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure? They’re having a huge sale today. What’s your name, sir?”

He sighs loudly. “John Watson, and no. Please leave me be, ma’am.”

He’s faced away and has his cane out to take a step when he hears the unseemly squeak of the young lady behind him.

“Watson? John Watson? Don’t leave! Please stay right there, one second!”

Before John even has the chance to turn fully back around, the woman has dashed off into the store. He rubs a hand against his face in irritation, but he can’t deny the adrenaline suddenly pumping throughout his body, the rush of butterflies in his chest. 

John doesn’t wait long before a tall woman with long red hair, who appears slightly familiar, drifts gracefully out of the shop and stops in front of him. She hands him a folded letter, but does not let it go once John’s grasped it, and whispers, “Listen carefully. Are you listening?”

“Yes, yes,” John replies, trying not to sound too anxious, but it’s hard with the blood rushing so loudly in his ears.

“You’ve been excellent. A queen’s vision!” She exclaims, and, no sooner than John can open his mouth, she releases the note, swiftly rounds back towards the shop at a brisk pace and vanishes within it.

John stares, stunned by the declaration. He has no control over his jaw and can only manage an incredulous, “What?” to himself.

His head hurts, and his fingers tremble as they fold open the note she’d given him, the exact same parchment as the other. He sucks in a lot of air as he reads what is undoubtedly a coded string of letters. They say,

  
  
xxiikpmwulv-xihcrglwnkuix-gyirgumf2   
  


John struggles with himself.

“Shit, Sherlock.”

 

 

He takes off work for a week and forbids Mrs. Hudson to bother him; the look John receives makes him wonder how long it will be before she brings Harry or Ella around. It’s that sense of dwindling time that propels him into a crazed search, reading every cipher and code book Sherlock has lying around.

“Damnit, John! He tried to teach you these; why didn’t you listen? Because he was a giant git, that’s why,” he hears himself mumbling more than once. He’d tried everything he found, but none of the common alphabet ciphers made any sense. An element was missing.

John also has no idea what the exclamation meant - _‘a queen’s vision? Hell,’_ and he knows that it is probably the key to it all. He sits, tap, tap, tapping his fingers on his chair in the living room, day in, day out, unable to make heads or tails of any of it.

Mrs. Hudson seems to gather up the audacity to disturb him at one point ten days later, coming in with a tray of tea.

“John, dear, I’m sorry to intrude, but I must clean out the rest of Sherlock’s knick-knacks, as per his brother-“

“No! Don’t touch anything!” John barks and feels the regret wash over him like ice. He hates being short with her, but he has no choice. So much damage might have previously been done when they first started clearing things out, and, now that Sherlock’s left him some sort of message, maybe had done it way before he died, he can’t risk disturbing anything else.

Mrs. Hudson gives him a stern stare, and he wants to shout at her, _‘he tried to tell me something, he tried to tell me something!’_ , but he can’t jeopardize his already failing veneer of sanity.

“John, surely you don’t need these silly trinkets he’s got around. Glasses, cups, jars, dice, this odd queen and king thing- I never knew what this was supposed to be, looked like a pack of cards but-“

“Wait, stop,” John asserts, jumping from his chair and ignoring his cane completely, “what queen thing? What are you talking about?”

Mrs. Hudson has a hand to her mouth in surprise, and John fights to wipe the manic expression from his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine, dear, fine. I, I- this is what you wanted?” She says gently, and John follows her gesture to-

John near clouts himself. “How could I miss that.”

Sitting on Sherlock’s desk the entire time, in plain sight, has been a container with the queen of spades painted on front.

“I apologize, Mrs. Hudson, but could give me a moment? I owe you rent, right? Could you make up my invoice for this month, please?” John begs her, and he is overcome, not for the first time, by a sweep of affection for her as she replies, _‘of course,’_ and hurries out the room.

John focuses his attention back to the queen.

“Queen’s vision, queen’s vision. Right, where is she looking? That’s what that means?”

John glances around Sherlock’s old mess of stuff and spies what he needs instantly. There are four dice sitting to the right of the queen, as she gazes in that direction, and John remembers when he first saw them that there had been two fives and two fours. Somehow, and he isn’t sure when, Sherlock must have changed them, because now they were all different numbers.

Six, three, four, five.

It’s the missing element: a cipher key.

John ignores the shudder scuttling up his spine and his brain screaming how this was all becoming a bit noxious, like some ugly contaminant dwelling in him.

“Which one? Which one?” he finds himself murmuring. “Queen’s vision. Vision? Strange word to use, Sherlock.” John clenches his fingers; he’s read Sherlock’s code books front to back, so certainly he can figure out the type of cipher now he has this piece. “ _Visshun_. A Vigenère? No, no, that needs an alphabetical code. No, wait.”

John hurries to the stack of books on the table near his chair, cane forgotten, and flips through until he finds the Gronsfield cipher.

“ _The Gronsfield cipher is essentially a Vigenère cipher_ ,” he reads aloud, “ _but uses numbers, typically around three or four, instead of letters._ Yes! Yes! Ha!” John feels light on his toes, and, for the first time, he gets a sense of how absolutely brilliant Sherlock must have felt every time he solved a case.

“Oh god, Sherlock, oh god,” John whispers, and the thought, _I miss you so much_ , flitters in the crevices of his mind. 

His phone rings, and caller ID tells him it’s Ella. He ignores it, grabs a pen, some scrap paper, and the book, thinking about how late the coffee shop stays open. He pulls on a jacket and leaves as hastily as he can. 

Once he’s a good mile away from the flat, John takes out his note and sets about deciphering the string of letters.

 

 

John spends thirty minutes throwing up before dawn the morning of his flight. He tells himself it’s the effect of the cheap meat he ate the previous night, but he’d be lying if he said he was convinced of it. He’d officially quit his job, sold the LSGC and OSM Afghanistan medals he was awarded in service to pay for the remaining rent and the trip itself, worried Mrs. Hudson sick, and, on top it all, he has no idea what he will do with himself once this comes to an end. And John understands it will end. A game of clues doesn’t go on forever.

He takes a mild narcotic before he walks through Heathrow security, praying it will ease him into a light enough sleep so he won’t be sitting in his own thoughts on the flight to Charles de Gaulle. John’s been to Paris once with Harry when they were young, but he doesn’t remember much of the trip nowadays and has hardly enough French in his arsenal to get by. He’s only booked a one-way flight, to the Mulhouse airport on the border, transfer in Paris, and packed nearly all of his stuff with him; he doesn’t know the direction he’ll be heading upon the next clue, if he manages to get it.

He wonders if Sherlock thought it would be funny, leading him off to a remote area where he’s certain not to find many English speakers, costing him thirty quid in French help books. _Rue de Miroir, Scey-Maisières_ , also known as the middle of absolutely nowhere, France. The cipher itself had taken him seven hours in total, no doubt because he hadn’t recognized the French words and thought he was once again wrong, giving up in between and searching for different codes. It wasn’t until he’d sat and finished the entire string of letters that he realized it was a place name, with the words **_ave maria_** and the number two tacked on the end, which, of course, made no sense either.

Two flights, a beer, a twisted ankle, a car rental costing more than half of what he had left, and three driving hours later, he finds himself parking on the side of the Rue de Miroir and roaming down the road, the click-clack-click-clack of his cane the only echo of noise in the outskirts of the tiny town of Scey-Maisières. There’s a small river, quiet and still, obscured by a line of trees, that is barely reflecting the sun setting behind the hills to his right and a diminutive brick wall separating road from an endless expanse of countryside to his left. It’s four in the afternoon and the street is abandoned, much like the area itself – he walks for ten minutes and sees no houses and no people. He passes a deserted storage crate and the ruins of a home, nothing left but the sad strip of drive leading up to it, as if it were maintaining the hope that the owner would someday return.

That’s probably somehow symbolic, John thinks miserably.

He rounds a corner after another ten minutes and spots a congregation of trees surrounding some sort of statue facing the river. As he approaches it, he can tell that the flowers and bushes have been visibly well-kept by a landscaper or gardener. The statue is of a woman, stone, dressed lavishly in jewels and a dress, holding a baby that is similarly adorned. The writing on its plaque is in French, something ‘de Scey-Maisières’, with the years she lived beneath.

As he reads the final engraved words, John takes a shuddering breath and exhales long and audibly, putting some extra weight on his cane.

_Ave Maria._

“Well,” he pants. “I’m here, Sherlock. Is this where you wanted me?” John shouts angrily, aiming towards the sky. “Having a good laugh, watching John go barmy, are you? Leading him on his little quest in the boons of flippin’ France? God,” John finishes, shaking a little.

He takes a second to gather himself and then starts to inspect the area around the statue, walking up the five steps to the tiny fence embellished with what seem like upside-down hearts, hardly fortifying the space. He’s muttering, _‘two, two, two’_ , the last piece of information he has, but there is no number two on the plaque. Something between two trees? The two figures? He takes his time, staring at the gravel and the statue, trying to discern anything out of place or strange.

After a while, John glances down at his feet, backing off the stone steps. _‘Five of them. The second one?’_ he thinks. He drops his cane and awkwardly gets to his knees near the foothold. Nothing appears disturbed, but he can’t be sure. He tries to fiddle around with the stone on the second step, and he easily moves it from its place, worms and potato bugs dropping from the bottom.

John supposes he should be more surprised to see the folded parchment resting there, but he’s not; his body is too busy thrumming with anticipation.

He sets the stone step aside and dusts the dirt of the parchment, rubbing a thumb over the ridges and swells. John sighs deeply, folds it open, and is surprised to find a giant block of text in, with which he has little doubt, Sherlock’s scrawl.

  


> _“Fantastic, John. You’ve done perfectly. That you're reading this confirms why living with me was the finest decision you ever made. However, you have just proven why I needed to die. You are, once again, wrong. You believed me to be cleverer than I was, and you trusted my intelligence to too far an extent. You are a fool, John, clinging onto an image of a man that does not exist. If I had been successful in everything I was supposed to be, I would be alive, and you would not be here. I'm sure you understand.” _

And that was it. John reads it again, and another time, and another. Five times, seven times, ten.

“Is this it?” he grinds out after several minutes, “this is it?! This is what you brought me here for, this stupid letter, this-”

He thinks a surge of pain shoots through his leg and he collapses into a sitting position, fingernails pressing hard into the paper. It’s done. No more clues. He can hear the huffing of air blowing in-out-in-out as he breathes, fast and abnormal. His nose itches, and he sniffs noisily.

“You dick! You sono’va-” John throws down the letter back in its hole and reaches for the stone foothold, “I’m done with this! I’m done with you! You-”

John cuts himself off with a wheeze, and he quickly drops the stone to his side once more. There, amongst the dirt, is another parchment, small and rolled up, and he had not seen it, so distracted by the first one.

This was getting outrageous. 

John unrolls the second parchment, mumbling, “Sherlock, if you weren’t already dead, I’d kill you.” The writing is smaller, and there isn’t much, but John unconsciously holds his breath.

  


> _M y Dear Watson._
> 
> _Derrière._
> 
> _-S_  
> 

“What?” John allows after a few heartbeats, but he's thrilled, mind racing with the possibility of more clues, because something’s clearly off. He’s feels himself shiver, the barest amount.

Who ends a letter with ‘derrière’?

He whips his head around, towards the river - _it means behind_ , John thinks - and tries to calm his pounding heart as he searches.

It’s been less than thirty seconds when he sees it: a flutter of a long dark coat near the river, shrouded by the trees.

“No,” John hisses, but he’s already running, cane abandoned, sprinting towards the river’s edge. “No, no, no, no,” he rambles, and a figure emerges as he jumps and sidesteps branches and undergrowth.

John stops, a few meters in front of the man, curly-haired and coat billowing in the breeze, and stares at his back.

“No,” he says, louder.

The man turns- Sherlock turns- and grins the most annoying grin he’s ever seen. “How brilliant you are, John. Though, it did take you six months.”

“It’s not possible- you can’t be-” John begins, and his voice escapes in a quake. “I saw you, right there, dying, dead! You have a grave!” He vaguely registers that he’s starting to sound hysterical but _why the fuck not_. “I’m going to be ill; I am ill! Raving mad! Oh, god.”

Sherlock takes a couple steps towards him, smiling. “You never truly believed I was dead, John, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“No! No, I did, Sherlock, you bastard, I did,” John rushes out. “I thought you had some secret will for me to find or- or- not this!”

“Well if you’d rather I-” but John doesn’t let him finish, because he walks up and punches him square across the jaw.

Sherlock stumbles with the blow, and John catches his coat collar, yanking him back. John scowls at him, livid, and he almost punches Sherlock once more. Sherlock isn’t fazed; he runs a finger over his lip, checking for blood that isn’t there. John grips the fabric tight in his hand, wanting to explode, wanting to hurt him, but Sherlock merely smiles at him, almost peaceful.

John opens his mouth- and deflates. He staggers a bit and collapses against Sherlock’s chest, head hitting with a thump, too dizzy with everything that’s happening.

“You’re alive,” he murmurs, and he wraps an arm around Sherlock’s back, burrowing his fingernails into his jacket.

“John-”

“What the hell?” John yells, muffled against Sherlock’s undershirt. “How did you even survive? How did I not know?”

“I had to protect you,” Sherlock’s announces, unmoving against him, letting John use him for support.

“But you knew!” John continues, angry. “You knew I would find you- you could've told me earlier! What if I’d thrown away that note? What if I never saw it?!”

He hears Sherlock sigh.

“The note was secured under your mattress, taped on one side; you would’ve seen it any time you tried to move it. You would only move your mattress if you were leaving the flat, which would be unlikely in any other case but my death-”

John tries to interject, “or if I moved in with someone el-“

“Improbable. Wouldn’t have happened. The week after the pool I placed it there, in the event of a worst case scenario – an apt precaution, clearly – didn’t quite realize it would take you so long, but you never were a very quick study, even after more than a year with me. We’ll have to work on that.”

John can’t help but be furious. He pounds a fist against Sherlock’s chest and forces out, “god, I wish I never met you. Why the hell did you do this to me? Why did I deserve this? Why didn’t you _just stay dead_?”

Sherlock is quiet, and John can sense his chest rise against him as he inhales and exhales. John’s eyes are wet, and it doesn’t matter; he’s been through hell and back, and he doesn’t know whether to scream or- or do whatever else.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John groans, a bit wretchedly, and that seems to be what does it, because Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s back and presses him close, nudging his nose against the top of John’s head. John flinches in surprise but is too otherwise stunned to move.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, and his breath is warm against his skin. “I’m sorry.”

A few minutes pass and Sherlock holds him, but it’s awkward and unusual. John fidgets after a while, uncomfortable, and slowly pushes himself off. He watches the other man for a moment before demanding, “Explain.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow slightly. “It’s a good story.”

John huffs. “Well. I’m not going anywhere, am I?” 

He can see the corner of Sherlock’s lip twitch upward, humming to himself. “Look at me, John. A fake.”

John finds himself rolling his eyes and saying, “You know I will never believe you on that.”

“Which is good, but I am a bit of one, don’t you agree? I wouldn’t have lost the game if I didn’t have feelings,” and, of course, Sherlock spits out the word like it’s rancid, “and see! It ended up being my demise. I’d have won, if I’d chosen not to care!” His brow tightens, and John can tell he’s aggravated with himself, clenching his jaw almost imperceptibly; it’s hardly there, but John notices.

John sighs, sniffing some more, and takes a few moments, frustrated that even now Sherlock can’t give it up and admit that he’s human like everyone else. But John disregards it; that’s a constant battle, anyway. He’s still reeling a bit, wiping a hand over his face in exasperation.

Sherlock falls into his own thoughts, and he spits out, angry, “Moriarty knew I couldn’t walk away and let you die. He knew how I felt! Vile, emotions! I’d be better off without them. No weaknesses. Think of how unbeatable I could be. Never have to fake my own death.”

John feels himself shaking his head. “Now you’re sounding like him,” he criticizes. “God! You’re selfish as always. You know why you should care, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock stares back down at him, and he’s curious, so John speaks roughly, hoping what he’s about to say will get through that thick head of his. “You should _care_ how it made me feel to listen to you lie to me, how it felt to watch you fall to your death, all these months wondering what the hell happened, only for you to show up here, alive! How about you care about me for once?” John demands.

Sherlock opens his mouth, to object no doubt, but John quickly finishes, “Please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock's eyes linger on his own for a handful of wordless seconds with an expression that John can't read at all, and he thinks that perhaps that was too grand a request. John's already received an apology, and he wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock's at his sentimentality capacity for the day.

So he's not really expecting Sherlock to agree.

“What?”

Sherlock gives the minutest of shrugs. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?” John challenges. "You just said-"

“Okay,” Sherlock interrupts, blinking. “I’ll… care more about your feelings.”

John’s expression must’ve given him away, because Sherlock adds, “only for you.”

John hears a bird squawk loudly in the distance, and he's staring at Sherlock in disbelief. "Right. I'll believe that when I see it."

"I will," Sherlock replies immediately.

John makes a sound in his throat. "Weakness and all?"

Sherlock allows the slightest of grimaces before, "Yes, if I must."

John can't help but dip his head down and laugh a little. _This man_. He's about to pose one of the countless lingering questions he has about the entire situation, but Sherlock doesn't give him the chance.

“Want to come with me?” Sherlock asks. “Continue where we left off?”

John’s initial reaction is something along the lines of, _'After the shit you've pulled? The hell I will,’_ but John looks at Sherlock and knows that expression. At first glance, it’s nothing. He’s stoic and apathetic as ever, but John’s the one that can see the brightness hidden in his eyes, the happiness bubbling up beneath the surface.

John attempts to disregard the trills of relief and elation that suddenly buzz in him, convincing himself that he’s still confused, angry, and hurt. But it’s as if the extent of the situation just dawned on him, hitting him harder than freight train. Sherlock, alive, in front of him.

He wishes he had more willpower.

“Yeah,” he concedes, defeated. “Yeah. Okay.”

Sherlock positively beams - well, for Sherlock - and John momentarily wonders if he’s found the right person. Sherlock flutters past him and begins a brisk pace to the road, and John has to take a couple large paces to catch up.

Inwardly, he groans to himself, still pissed as hell, but what else was he going to do, anyway?

John falls in step beside him, and Sherlock glances at him. “Do you like France, or should we try somewhere else?”

John considers it and then, “rotten at French, m’fraid.”

“Switzerland. Banks. Sure to be crime,” Sherlock declares, but then suddenly stops walking. 

John halts beside him. Sherlock throws him a look and then reaches down to grasp John’s hand in his own.

“Sherlock, wha-” but John doesn’t finish because Sherlock squeezes his hand tight and continues walking forward. John hurriedly strides to keep up, not wanting to be dragged along, but he feels his eyebrows jump into his hairline. He blinks a few times, peeking at his hand in Sherlock’s, and he can hear his brain shouting questions. John pointedly does not look at Sherlock's face.

But he can feel Sherlock watching him out of the corner of his eye.

There’s a stretch of awkward silence as they walk hand-in-hand and then, “No comment on people talking, John?”

John snorts.

“Fuck people, Sherlock, _we’re_ talking about _this_ ,” and he waves their joined hands in the air frantically, “- the minute we get to the car,” John explodes. “Yes, good, fine, you’re alive, but I know you hit your head way too hard on that pavement. I'm no idiot.”

Sherlock laughs, and John can't tell if he's delighted or mocking him. Despite it, he stifles a smile, glad that Sherlock doesn’t comment on how his hand twitches just so, may or may not be pressing against his the faintest bit more.

They walk, John following him as always.

But not before elbowing him, hard. “You have a lot of explaining to do. How long were you waiting out here, anyway?”

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes and Resources:**  
>  1\. Websites for [Midlands Deactivated Weapons](http://www.mdwsupplies.co.uk/), [ MDW Associates Ltd](http://www.mdwassoc.plus.com/mdwassoc/).  
> 2\. Maps: [Jubilee line towards Green Park](http://maps.google.com/maps?saddr=221b+Baker+Street,+London,+United+Kingdom&daddr=Green+Park&hl=en&sll=51.514779,-0.149946&sspn=0.030285,0.084543&geocode=Fa8wEgMdZJX9_ylPkPYzzxp2SDH7d-1yJd1sEA%3BFYbiEQMdN8v9_ynZK_-BKAV2SDGj8dXKSLFa2w&vpsrc=0&dirflg=r&ttype=now&noexp=0&noal=0&sort=def&mra=ls&t=m&z=14&start=0%20), [Bond Street exit](http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Bond+Street,+City+of+Westminster,+United+Kingdom&hl=en&ll=51.514311,-0.14971&spn=0.007571,0.021136&sll=51.514365,-0.14956&sspn=0.007571,0.021136&geocode=Fa8wEgMdZJX9_ylPkPYzzxp2SDH7d-1yJd1sEA%3BFYbiEQMdN8v9_ynZK_-BKAV2SDGj8dXKSLFa2w&oq=Bond+&vpsrc=0&dirflg=r&ttype=now&noexp=0&noal=0&sort=def&hnear=Bond+Street&t=m&z=16&start=0%20), [Molton, Davies, and Weighthouse intersection](http://maps.google.com/maps?q=75+Davies+St,+City+of+Westminster,+United+Kingdom&hl=en&ll=51.513817,-0.148959&spn=0.007572,0.021136&sll=51.513136,-0.148144&sspn=0.007572,0.021136&vpsrc=0&dirflg=r&ttype=now&noexp=0&noal=0&sort=def&hnear=75+Davies+St,+City+of+Westminster,+London+W1C+2,+United+Kingdom&t=m&z=16), [Rue de Miroir in France](http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Rue+de+Miroir,+25290+Scey-Maisi%C3%A8res&hl=en&ie=UTF8&sll=47.100333,6.07519&sspn=0.530043,1.352692&vpsrc=0&dirflg=r&ttype=now&noexp=0&noal=0&sort=def&hnear=Rue+du+Miroir,+25290+Scey-Maisi%C3%A8res,+Doubs,+Franche-Comt%C3%A9,+France&t=m&z=16%20)  
> 3\. Street view captures: [Molton, Davies, Weighthouse intersection](http://i42.tinypic.com/f9lcp1.jpg), [John Bolding and Sons plaque at the intersection](http://i43.tinypic.com/ednox.jpg) (antique store also pictured), [the statue in France](http://i41.tinypic.com/118dkbr.jpg) and [Ave Maria](http://i41.tinypic.com/xeljd.jpg)  
> 4\. Other information: [Sherlock’s desk and queen container](http://i39.tinypic.com/116iecj.jpg), screencapped from Moriarty’s video, and [the Gronsfield cipher](http://rumkin.com/tools/cipher/gronsfeld.php) (feel free to plug in the code information and see the answer!).  
> 5\. Additional: I really enjoyed the idea of Sherlock leaving a clue system to let John know he was alive after the fall, and I wanted it to have something to do with the iconic phrase, “My Dear Watson”. I spent a lot of time thinking about how to incorporate it and seriously had a bit of sheer dumb luck finding a three-way intersection with those initials, not ONLY close to Baker Street but also on the Bond exit of London’s Jubilee line from Baker Street. It was a bit insane, to say the least. Anyhow, thanks for reading!


End file.
